


Every Cloud Has A Silver Lining

by blackforests



Category: Leverage
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, M/M, Rape/Non-con References, Self-Destructive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-08
Updated: 2011-06-08
Packaged: 2017-10-21 01:45:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/219523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackforests/pseuds/blackforests
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tag to "The Big Bang Job". They don’t know everything about him and he intends to keep it that way. The team means way too much to him than he would like to admit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Cloud Has A Silver Lining

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moonchildfic](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=moonchildfic).



> Disclaimer: I wish I own Leverage and the characters, but I don’t.
> 
> For the [leveragexchange](http://leveragexchange.livejournal.com/) challenge. A million thanks to [telaryn](http://telaryn.livejournal.com/) for being an amazing beta.

Eliot tried not to react visibly when Moreau shifted his gaze and addressed him with a deliberate smile, “I _do_ know you.” His words were loaded with implications which Eliot couldn’t even begin to decipher. Abruptly, Eliot felt all his defences slam up vehemently and his body fought hard in order to relax and not enter the fight or flight mode. “We could talk.”

“I ain’t much on talkin’, Moreau,” Eliot responded quietly. It felt like everything was moving so fast until he couldn’t breathe. After so many years, Moreau still haunted him everywhere he went. He could remember every fucking thing he did when he was working with Moreau. He trained his eyes on his former employer as the man placed his drink on the table and shrugged, “Okay. Let’s keep it short.”

Eliot stiffened as Moreau approached him—but instead of touching him, the man kicked Hardison’s chair which caused the hacker to fall backwards into the pool with a stunned yell. The hit man resisted the urge to growl at his target.

“I’m sure you told your clients I don’t do business with strangers,” Moreau started as he averted his attention back to Eliot.

Eliot stared straight into Moreau’s eyes and confirmed, “That’s why I’m here—to vouch for him.”

“Oh, a little vague.” They could hear the struggling noises from the pool but nobody made a move to help.

“I never told anybody about you,” Eliot supplied truthfully. He ignored the pleading voice inside his head—to just _stop_ , stop being used by this sick, sick man—and tried to focus on the situation at hand. He knew Hardison could handle himself, but he still needed to talk his way out, just in case. “I used the same confidentiality with all my clients. However, I _can_ say they’re overseas. You sell it to the international buyers, it leaves U.S. soil immediately—no trace back to you.”

Moreau shrugged, “I already have international buyers, so uh, that’s not an issue.” He made a casual move to pick up his drink. Eliot clenched his fist to prevent himself from breaking the arrogant man’s neck while his back was facing the hit man. “What else you got?”

Eliot gave a small sigh, already resigned to his fate. He cocked his head to the side, “What do you want, Damien?”

Moreau flashed his tell-tale, signature smirk and beckoned Chapman to hand him the keys to the handcuffs. Eliot eyed the keys as Moreau twirled them in his hand and answered vaguely, “You know what I want, Eliot.”

Moreau then took a few sudden steps towards Eliot and the hit man tried not to freeze. Desperately. His ex-employer proceeded to run two fingers from Eliot’s hip to his chest gently and by then, Eliot was already trembling a little. He nearly lost it, though, when Moreau tapped the fingers on his face twice and breathed into his ear, “I’ve missed you so much.”

“The feeling’s not mutual, Damien,” Eliot retorted in a soft whisper, hating the shivering mess that Moreau had reduced him to be. He had to fight his instinct to hurl the man before him into the pool.

“You’ve gone soft, Eliot. Meet me tonight at 9 p.m. sharp. I’ll tell you where later when I’ve made up my mind,” Moreau decided it was a good idea at that moment to nip at Eliot’s ear playfully, to which Eliot instinctively reacted by giving Moreau a hard shove.

Eliot glared at Moreau while the other man merely chuckled in return and tossed the keys into the pool as a response. “Old times,” Moreau mouthed and it was difficult for Eliot not to punch the man in the face.

 

 

\+ + +

Gasping, Eliot wakes up on his bed and massages his forehead in an attempt to fend off the disorientation. It has been a long time since he dreamt of his memories with such vivid details. He seldom remembers his dreams anymore—not when he only has a few hours of sleep every other day. Shaking his head, Eliot makes his way to the door silently while collecting the shirt that was randomly thrown onto the armchair. His sharp sense of hearing picks up the indiscernible, low voices of his teammates discussing the latest plan to defeat Moreau. He clenches his fist, already predicting the onset of a migraine.

The team doesn’t understand his fear and rage. They _didn’t_ have the pleasure of having Damien Moreau in their lives, messing with their heads. It is comforting that they don’t have to live their lives unsure of what will happen next, or even try anticipating the looming danger that is bound to materialise.

But it makes them complacent— and they really have no idea who they are dealing with.

The team was furious when he revealed his connection with Moreau. Still is, perhaps. They were probably thinking that the blood spilled on his résumé only belonged to the big, bad wolves and Eliot was naturally, a force of good. The team most definitely didn’t expect such appalling jobs which Eliot had to take on for the sake of _money_ and his survival. They heard that Eliot was brutal to all of his targets on mere retrieval tasks, but they _didn’t know_. He is a fighting machine. He fights for his own survival, for God’s sake. Money is simply a tool he needs to stay alive. They probably thought he was _human_.

Well, Eliot thinks they’re sensible enough to see that he wasn't when they first met him. He didn’t know how to be one, not anymore. How about right now? He isn’t quite sure at all.

It pains him when his team—his makeshift family—feels _betrayed_ due to the revelation and none of them had actually listened to his explanations long enough to comprehend his actions. Eliot doesn’t know how to deal with the new development of events. He isn’t built to be wary of such situations.

He saunters down the spiral staircase, keeping his footsteps light and quiet. Eliot thinks of sneaking out to buy his own dinner before making to the dreaded meeting with Moreau. _Keep a level head_ , he tells himself— a useless statement that has never been of much help before. Despite being a trained killer, he is positive that Parker has a remarkable instinct that gives him away almost immediately.

“Eliot?” Parker perks up and all of the others turn to look at him. Eliot looks away, feeling uneasy with all their gazes trained on his very being. He hears a loud sigh from Hardison as the hacker plops onto the chair by the long counter with the rest of the team.

Eliot clears his throat and declares awkwardly, “I’m going out.” He had _never_ explained his actions to the people he worked with in the past. Especially trivial details like these. This team is doing things to him that he can’t even begin to address and Eliot isn’t sure if he likes this version of himself. It scares him a little.

The rest of the team return to what they were doing, but Eliot is certain that they still have many burning questions that they are afraid to ask. He sees that from the frown on Sophie’s face, the way Hardison grips his console, and Parker’s disappointed demeanour. Nate, however, is openly staring at him, almost as if he is challenging Eliot’s notion of heading out of the house. _Nate_ is definitely fuming from Eliot’s little secret.

“Just spit it out, Nate,” Eliot snaps impatiently, crossing his arms across his chest.

Nate nurses his coffee mug and takes a small sip without taking his eyes off Eliot. He places the mug on the counter and inquires quietly, “If you really have to _murder_ Atherton to bring Moreau down, will you actually do it?”

The emphasis on the word ‘murder’ causes Eliot to flinch evidently. Nate is heading straight for the kill, pulling out all the stops this time. Nate doesn’t soften the blow and yet, his eyes are begging him to say “no”. Eliot feels his mouth go dry.

They have been sleeping together for months now but neither one of them dares to label this arrangement they possess. Eliot has latent, unresolved issues which lead to his inability to trust enough for a stable relationship and Nate prefers the ‘no strings attached’ package anyway. They fuck—they don’t share intimate details about themselves. That will render Eliot _vulnerable_.

Now, he sees the trust, hurt, and so many other emotions he dare not name in Nate’s eyes and Eliot doesn’t know how to feel.

“Yes, Nate. You know that,” Eliot replies tightly, keeping his face blank. _Don’t make me say other things that I’ll regret_ , he begs inwardly. He will do anything for the team. Anything. No matter how painful it is to face Moreau and his lackeys again, Eliot is willing to sacrifice his own comfort zone to get his team out of any kind of danger.

He only hopes the deep-seated feelings of sadness, pain and regret swirling in his gut will go away soon.

Hardison and Sophie are staring at him, clearly shell-shocked. Parker merely purses her lips and looks away, as though Eliot has offended her for simply _existing_.

But the look on Nate’s face is what hurts him the most. Nate looks stunned, with a mixture of disbelief and resentment. Nate is grasping his mug tightly as though he’s willing it to break in his grip.

“No, no, Eliot. I didn’t. But I thought I knew you better than this,” Nate finally responds and his disturbed gaze never wavers. _At least better than the rest of the team._  Eliot’s mind fills in the blanks for him.

The spell is broken and the whole team is tense, like wind-up toys—it’s like a veil has been lifted and they are clearly seeing everything that is laid out in front of them. Eliot can almost feel the confusion and gloom radiating from every fibre of their bodies. He can only look at them, feeling a little detached from the entire absurd situation, like a spectator in his own life.

He’s always the outsider. He’s always the one watching from the outside. And Eliot decides that enough is enough.

“You guys _knew_. I’m a killer. I’ll always be one. You can’t expect me to change overnight,” Eliot growls out, and he is definitely on a roll. He doesn’t say much about himself, because he hates how much information he’s offering to the enemies and he will need to be two steps ahead, always. But the team isn’t the enemy. No, no— _he_ is.

“We don’t, Eliot,” Sophie says gently. Eliot looks at her expectantly. She is like the mother hen of the team. It’s never Nate—all of them actually look up towards her. Her advice is always wise and comforting. “But we thought you had,” Sophie pauses, and corrects, “That, you would. For us. Because of us. Take your pick.”

“It’s not that easy. It’s _never_ that easy,” Eliot counters half-heartedly. His annoyance towards the team is slowly ebbing away, like a gentle sea wave. He feels bitter. He even feels resigned. They think it’s easy to change, but it really isn’t. Not to Eliot, in any case. Change isn’t good. Change is always scary. Eliot has decided long ago that he would avoid change at all costs, unless absolutely necessary.

Joining the team had been a huge gamble. He’s still isn’t sure if it’s the right choice, but it was a good change in a long while. But he still likes routine. He sticks to routine. What you know can never hurt you.

If he changes, he may not like what he sees in the mirror. And he may never live with that.

“Why?” Sophie prods persistently, while the team looks pensive, as if they’re trying to fully absorb and understand the gravity of what Eliot has just said. “We all have secrets, Eliot. But we need to know that we can trust you—that the Eliot we know still has our backs.”

“We’ve been over this. I’m protecting all of you,” Eliot argues with little heat and he’s feeling just a little tired of everything. He had shouted the same sentence at Nate earlier that day and he had meant every single word of it. He wants to protect all of them. It’s his job. But it’s one thing to do that as a job and another to do it willingly, risking his life—the one he tries so hard to preserve— in the process. Eliot is treading upon dangerous ground.

“I have to do my job,” Eliot falters, his mind fumbling for a reasonable explanation. He doesn’t want to be the weak link in the group. He has to be capable enough to complete his tasks, to protect all of them. He needs that desperately and he isn’t going to allow them to take that away from him. He _isn’t_ a weak person.

Not anymore.

He considers his thoughts, but rejects the notion of babbling all of these completely. They don’t need to know that. “You guys do your thing, I do mine.”

“We don’t need protecting, Eliot,” Parker pipes up, her voice low and firm. It is a strange, rare occasion to see her behaving like that. Eliot hates that _he’s_ the one doing this to her. “We knew what we were getting ourselves into.” Hardison nods beside her, as if he is placed in a trance-like state. Eliot knows the hacker needs more convincing than the rest of the team. Hardison is the one who abhors violence. He’s a geek, damn it.

“You guys don’t know Moreau,” Eliot almost resorts to pleading with the team. Something he hasn’t done in a very long time. “Trust me on this. You don’t mess with Moreau and walk away. He owns you and there’s nothin’ you can do ‘bout it.”

“But you did,” Nate fills in like a damn seer, and Eliot has to remind himself that they only fuck, they don’t share. But Nate reads him like a damn book anyway, and Eliot’s heart goes thousands of miles per hour. _They cannot know_.

Nate can already sense his building anxiety and the man is smiling like he has won the lottery. “You did,” Nate goes on knowingly. “But you manage to escape his clutches.” The rest of the team look at Nate like he has grown two heads out of the blue. Eliot has no choice but to resist any temptation to lash out, to yell at Nate for disclosing his darkest secrets, to hate Nate for being so perceptive—anything.

“ _You don’t know anything_ ,” Eliot breathes out in a cold fury, his face so close to Nate’s that their noses can almost touch. At that very moment, he can see the unadulterated fear in Nate’s eyes. It’s plausible that Nate thinks Eliot will punch him, kick him, choke him—whatever—for testing his limits. Eliot sees that fear, and he’s almost disappointed. Nate doesn’t know him at all.

He pulls back like nothing has transpired between the two of them and surveys the reactions of the rest of the team for a second. Sophie’s lips part like she wants to say something, but close as nothing comes out from her mouth. Without a word, Eliot stalks to the front door and turns the doorknob. He feels he should clear the air by muttering a goodbye, but he thinks the better of it and stops himself at that instant. He thinks he hears Parker utter something but he’s already out of the place as he slams the door shut.

Not every thought can be translated into words, anyway.

 

 

\+ + +

Walking on the same, familiar carpeted floor gives him some comfort as he forces himself to check the time again. It’s definitely 9 p.m. on the dot. Squashing the nerve-wrecking anxiety that is forcing bile up his throat, Eliot raises a hand to press the doorbell. He hasn’t done this in a long time. He isn’t sure why he’s starting again, but he reminds himself that no matter what the team thinks of him, he’s doing this for the team. As the saying goes—he’s taking one for the team.

As the door swings open, Eliot already feels the doubt creeping up on him like an uninvited guest. He has to do this. It is inevitable. Moreau smirks at him like he always does and he pulls Eliot into the room with a hand by the hit man’s waist.

He knows he’s doing this by choice. But Eliot only feels like his old self again, when things were different and he didn’t have things like… _options_. There were money and survival—and then there were the cold, the hunger, the pain, the exhaustion that made him wake in the morning with dread pooling in his stomach.

Damien Moreau gave him a way out. The man before him was a young, haughty, rich brat already, back in the day. Moreau had dabbled in stocks and managing his father’s company but he wasn’t content. That was when Moreau started recruiting young, lost men like him who were willing to do anything to improve their living conditions. That was when blood was shed in the name of business. And the other thing that happened, Eliot refuses to discuss.

Moreau is stroking his face like a tender lover as he whispers innocuously, “Have you missed me, El?” Eliot manages not to cringe at the old pet name and he focuses on the ‘mission’ instead. He doesn’t need a reminder that Moreau is anything but harmless. He’s a manipulative businessman who plays with human beings like toys and discards them after he’s done and pleased.

“So what’s the deal tomorrow?” Eliot speaks up casually, refusing to acknowledge the hand that is snaking down to his crotch. He needs to know the details so he can plan an escape for Atherton with the team. He needs to be in control. However, Moreau has other ideas as he puts his index finger against Eliot’s lips and answers, “Let’s not talk shop now, El. Let’s leave it for later.”

With that, Moreau viciously attacks Eliot’s mouth with his tongue and Eliot doesn’t retaliate. Instead, he pushes back with the same fervour that makes the other man moan in response. Eliot smirks into the kiss—if you can call it that—and decides that he can still remain in control. He still knows what buttons to push to make Moreau hot and bothered. If he wants it, then it doesn’t mean that he doesn’t have an option.

Moreau moves his hands expertly as he unbuttons Eliot’s black shirt and pulling off the undershirt. His necklace jingles with the rapid movement and Eliot kicks off his shoes and gets rid of his jeans. The routine seems familiar, even. Everything seems surreal in a way that Eliot feels almost bored for being able to fall back into the same routine he had almost every other night years ago so easily. _This is easy_ , Eliot tells himself. He thinks of how he can hook up the USB drive to the laptop later to download all of Moreau’s illegal plans. He thinks of how he can steal Moreau’s PDA to memorize all the important contacts.

But as he lies back onto the bed, stark naked, he knows that Moreau’s obviously smart enough to avoid bringing any kind of trace that Eliot can sniff out. But Eliot likes to think that he is in control, anyway and there isn’t anything wrong with the situation. He has leverage, he likes to think. He can stop whenever he wants to. It’s like with Nate, he likes to think.

God, Nate. Eliot pauses from the almost painful kiss to catch his breath and he almost chokes in the sudden onslaught of anguish. He doesn’t even know what to think. Nate fears him. But if he can see Eliot now, he will probably be disgusted. Eliot banishes the thought to the back of his head at once and grabs a fistful of the bed sheets. It doesn’t stop the gradual ache in his chest that is pounding with a vengeance as he chants his mantra inside his head. He’s in control. He breathes in. He’s in control. He breathes out.

And if he keeps saying that to himself, he’ll believe it sooner or later. Lies become real when you believe them long and hard enough.

 

 

\+ + +

It is difficult to maintain a professional conduct when the very space Eliot walks with the team crackles with tension. The entire ride to the warehouse was filled with a pregnant silence that neither of them bothered to acknowledge. As he walks by Nate’s side, awaiting further information from Hardison and Parker, Nate mumbles abruptly, “How do we go from here?”

Eliot stares at the other man as the topic unmistakably goes over his head. “The warehouse is just straight ahead, Nate.”

Nate stops as if there isn’t a need to hurry. He turns to Eliot, mouthing clearly so that the rest of the team doesn’t hear him, “You know what I meant. _Us_.” With that, Nate gives a vague gesture with his hand indicating to both Eliot and himself.

Eliot continues to stare at Nate blankly and proceeds to shake his head in a negative. He isn’t ready, just yet. Nate can’t just throw him a curve ball and expect him to catch it with enthusiasm. If that shake of his head isn’t enough to satisfy Nate’s apprehension, Eliot persists in walking towards the warehouse, effectively cutting off any more communication. Nate gives up and walks briskly to match Eliot’s speed.

As they walk into the warehouse, Hardison’s voice comes through the earpiece, “Nate, Nate. Something’s wrong. The bomb is not here.”

 

 

\+ + +

A phone rings unexpectedly, filling the warehouse with its shrill sounds. The Italian takes her phone and is about to answer it when Eliot grabs it and clarifies irately, “I got it.” He already knows who the caller is. There’s only one person who will the cat-and-mouse game with him to the point of exhaustion. But he isn’t that person anymore and he knows more than enough to fight back. Hitting the ‘call’ button, Eliot snarls into the phone, “Moreau.”

At the other side of the phone call, Moreau sounds distinctly amused, “For what it’s worth, she didn’t talk. So I sent some friends to continue the conversation.”

Eliot steadily accepts the fact that there’ll be more than enough of Moreau’s lackeys to take out his rage on. “Well then, I’ll see you soon,” Eliot says that like it’s a promise.

“By the way, the white hat really doesn’t suit you,” Moreau offers, trying to get under Eliot’s skin. “But I love the hair.” Eliot hangs up without a second thought and focuses at the situation at hand instead.

“Eliot, are we in trouble?” Nate inquires, and it shouldn’t be Eliot’s first reaction to be entertained by the alarm infecting the unruffled demeanour Nate had just minutes ago.

“Oh yeah,” Eliot replies, as though it isn’t already obvious. He can see the shadows of the men holding their weapons and the situation cannot get any worse. “Come on.”

They run for cover and Eliot’s fighting instinct is going into overdrive. Adrenaline rushes in his bloodstream with passion and it’s the most wonderful feeling that Eliot always loves. One of Moreau’s men appears before him and he takes him out with trained ease. He embraced violence as a required side of him many years ago and it’s probably the only side of him he can truly trust. After all, punches are punches and kicks are kicks. His skills can never lie to him and they’re the only thing he can count on when in a tight spot. He can’t rely on anything else.

He glances around the area and spots several armed men effortlessly. This is going to be a mess. He thinks of the possible routes out that he had memorised earlier on and all the feasible outcomes that include all three of them being _alive_. It’s okay if he’s injured, but Nate and the woman are indispensable. He needs them alive to successfully take down Moreau.

“So, we just have to get to that door,” Nate whispers after Eliot’s done with examining the scene.

“That’s a kill box,” Eliot answers evenly. “There’s too much space between here and there.” Addressing the Italian, Eliot asks, almost out of breath, “Are you sure you can take down Moreau?” He needs to know. There’s nothing more important than that to him at that very moment.

“Absolutely,” she assures and Eliot makes his decision straight away. He had promised himself once that he wou never use a firearm, ever again. Even the weight in his hand feels painful and everything about a gun reminds him of all the things he regret ever doing. He picks up the gun in front of him and tests the weight in his hand. If she can take down Moreau, perhaps he can stop having those nightmares of the past in the near future.

“Eliot, listen,” Nate starts, wearing an expression of dawning worry and horror. Eliot knows what the other man is thinking. He remembers the conversation they had the day before, about actually killing Atherton. The team dislikes his determination to kill when the need arises. However, this situation is different. He needs both Nate and the woman to be alive. Eliot rationalises that the conditions to kill this time are different. The targets used to be innocent. Now, he just needs to believe that the targets have the same innocent blood on their hands—like him.

He doesn’t need a lecture from Nate. He needs him to be safe. He can’t justify the need, but he can blame his selfishness another day. Numbly, Eliot instructs, “Get her out of here.”

The rain of blood starts pouring.

 

 

\+ + +

After all the fateful events of the day, Eliot had sought for a bar to do _something_. Well, bar-fighting wasn’t on the top of his list, but he had gladly taken out several burly men to rejoice in the adrenaline rush again. Nothing felt better than having control grasped securely in your hands. Or the fact that men larger than him could be defeated without any difficulties.

Now, he stumbles into his own room, crashing into the standing lamp before falling onto his bed. The high that followed after the shots of alcohol coupled with the adrenaline pumping through his veins had long crashed and he’s now a mere zombie operating on autopilot mode. He switches on the lights and hisses harshly at the callous glare the lights provide.

He should’ve known that he must be _really_ drunk if he didn’t notice Nate in his room until he switched on the lights. The team leader perches on the armchair at the far end of the bedroom, quietly observing the disarray before him. Nate doesn’t address him, and Eliot pays the man no further attention. He doesn’t care about the blood oozing from his superficial wounds that is staining the bed sheets as he kicks off his shoes and settles further into his pillows. He wants to sleep, sleep, and never ever waking up again.

Eliot isn’t sure if he’s actually drifting in and out of consciousness because the next thing he knows, Nate has travelled across the room and is now seated next to him. He opens his eyes blearily, although it should be somewhat of a miracle to be able to make out Nate’s silhouette before him. One of his eyes is swollen shut from a well-received punch from the bar fight he had started and he’s suddenly amazed by the fact that he even made it home at all.

Nate is dabbing gently at the cuts on his face and his other hand is stroking his hair soothingly. Eliot leans into Nate’s warm touches almost reflexively and even with his alcohol-addled mind, he can clearly count the number of times Nate had been affectionate towards him on one hand.

“The last time you got into a bar fight was when we had to steal that hospital,” Nate murmurs, retrieving the roll of bandages from the first-aid kid. “Well, I guess you can thank your lightning-fast reflexes that allowed you to escape with such shallow wounds. They should heal pretty quickly.”

Eliot reaches for Nate’s wrist and holds it in place. He shakes his head and utters quietly, “I can do it myself, Nate.” His voice sounds miserable, hurt and gruff to his ears. He must be a wretched sight to behold in front of Nate. It’s almost unbelievable. The invincible man reduces to… well, this. He’s someone who picks fights in bars because he wants to—because he _can_. He craves for control like a drug addict. It’s pathetic.

“Eliot, listen,” Nate begins, holding his hand in a vice-like grip, and Eliot predicts the following lecture that will come next. He pulls away and shoves Nate and the first-aid articles aside feebly. Nate, however, simply grabs Eliot’s hand again and says sternly, “No, no, listen to me, Eliot.”

Eliot attempts not to take comfort in the warm hand that is clutching his and waves a hand in a vague gesture, “I’ll be fine tomorrow, Nate. Go to sleep.”

“No, Eliot. You’re not okay. You _pick_ fights at bars! Tell me—tell me what’s going on,” Nate insists, his eyes shining with trepidation. It’s a relatively peculiar experience, Eliot guesses, when he realises where the fear is coming from. It’s fear _for_ him, not _of_ him. It’s a striking and beautiful epiphany. But he doesn’t dare to see more of this version of Nate. He’s fucking scared—and it’s really pathetic. “Tell me.” The soft, sympathetic tone is the final straw. Oh, kind, understanding Nate.

He doesn’t deserve this.

Eliot sucks in a large quantity of oxygen as though he feels that his brain is malfunctioning. There’s a dull ache in his chest that is completely unrelated to his wounds. He supposes sorrow must have an alternative outlet when tears don’t come to him as easily in the present. He doesn’t know how to articulate his thoughts properly. Words fail him again, and again. Instead, as Eliot opens his mouth, he crashes it against Nate’s lips with such velocity that it nearly causes Nate to fall off his chair.

“Woah, woah, Eliot,” Nate pulls away from the fierce kiss, taking a deep breath. “What are—” Eliot spends no time talking and sticks his tongue into Nate’s mouth, exploring every single aspect of it. Nate tastes like black coffee, bittersweet. He assumes his mouth tastes of spicy alcohol and metallic blood. He needs his control back. And Nate is still alive.

“ELIOT!” Nate yells, pushing him onto the bed with a strength that he doesn’t know Nate possesses. Eliot falls back, stunned. His arousal vanishes like smoke, but lingers to have more. He knows he has crossed a line this time. He doesn’t care. People leave him all the time. They open their eyes, like fucking _finally_ , and see him for who he really is. And those who don’t leave him merely want to use him.

He thought that was the point of the arrangement, between Nate and him. But the careful concern Nate is showing him right now is scaring him. It doesn’t make sense. And Eliot lives by the code of making sense of everything. Maybe Nate just doesn’t want to see the real him—the wild beast who’s always fighting for control. He should show him.

“I killed those people today, Nate,” Eliot reveals, his voice raw, and yet, dead and cool. “I thought you should know.” _Yes, now that you know, maybe you’ll see. This is who I am_.

“I know,” Nate says that like announcing the weather forecast, but his eyes are full of regret and disappointment. Eliot thought it would be easy, but this isn’t. It hurts like a knife stabbing into his heart and he doesn’t think it’s actually physically possible. This shouldn’t hurt more than his team’s reactions to his secret about working for Moreau in the past. But it does.

“Good. I—uh. I’ll—” Eliot’s voice breaks at that moment, and it’s fucking embarrassing. He’s disgusted at himself for not being able to say the things that need to be said. God, how hard is it to say that he has to leave the team for their benefit? He used to work alone; he shouldn’t be a cry-baby about this. But it _is_ hard. He has gotten used to them and he really doesn’t want to let go. It’s unbecoming of him. He clears his throat and proposes, “I should leave.”

“And now I know you’re just being silly. Is Parker rubbing off you?” Nate’s voice is fond as he sits down next to Eliot. He pulls Eliot into a half-hug as though to avoid aggravating his injuries and Eliot stiffens, not knowing how to react. They don’t _cuddle_ , not ever. Nate’s expression turns firm and grave as he admits, “I’m disappointed that I had to leave you in that situation, Eliot. I made a mistake and you’re paying for it. I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.” Nate’s face softens. “I don’t blame you, Eliot. We don’t blame you. We know why you’ve to do what you did. I know. And it’s okay. We’re alive because of you. We’re okay. And you’ll be too.”

Eliot’s resolve breaks at those words and he holds onto Nate’s hand tightly, his head in an awkward position on Nate’s chest. He doesn’t cry or sob—no, he can’t do that anymore—but his whole frame shakes as Nate pats his back tenderly. The action has zero sexual connotations and Eliot relaxes under Nate’s touches. He rocks a little, but he’s too desperate to stop. The whole room is filled with silence as he trembles in despair, pain, regret and shame. He _killed_ and he _gave in_ to Damien Moreau again. Those promises to himself—why is he making them when he can’t keep them? He’s in pain, he’s in pain and there’s no one else for him to blame. He’s the weak link here.

“Why me?” Eliot whispers into nothing and he isn’t sure if Nate hears him.

 

 

\+ + +

It shouldn’t be a surprise to find Parker bright and early in the morning, sitting by the counter. There’s a bowl of what Eliot assumes to be containing fruit loops and milk in Parker’s hands. She swivels around and cries in her chipper, happy-morning-Parker voice, “Good morning, Eliot!” There goes the plan on stealth. No point in leaving then. Eliot walks to the kitchen area to prepare a steaming mug of coffee. He’s always clear-headed in the morning, but caffeine is still a welcomed boost to his system.

“Mornin’, Parker,” Eliot replies curtly like he always does. He flexes his hand which he used to throw punches the day before. The knuckles are still rather sore but he feels much rested after a few hours of sleep. Nate had fixed him up after it was apparent Eliot wasn’t going to do anything about his wounds. It was completely redundant because he heals quite fast but he gave in to Nate’s attention after some fussing. He’s not even going to address what he dubbed to be ‘the breakdown’ _ever again_ and he’ll probably punch out Nate’s teeth if he even suggests a preposterous idea such as doing it again—the cuddling thing. It was pointless. Utterly pointless.

“Bar fight?” Parker asks nonchalantly, dipping her spoon into the milk-soaked cereal. Eliot gives a brief nod and returns to the counter with a mug of coffee in his hand. She grins and pursues, “How did the other guys look?”

It’s hard not to grin back as Eliot smirks and answers, “Way worse than me, Parker. You know me better than that.”

Parker nods, her grin fading away. However, a small, understanding smile is playing upon her lips as she divulges, “Yeah, I do, Eliot. Give me some credit.” Eliot shouldn’t even be surprised about her uncanny intuition anymore. Parker may look and sound inane at times, but she’s way more mature and practical than anybody he has met. He had chalked it up to be her coping mechanism like the way he will act out in bouts of violence sometimes.

“I hope yesterday…” Eliot trails off, thinking of the appropriate terms to use. “It doesn’t change anything.”

“It doesn’t,” Parker agrees and knocks her bowl of loops against Eliot’s mug. “To _family_.” Parker smiles and it’s actually very contagious. Eliot fights back the quirking of his lips and he settles for an almost indifferent nod. The team is his family. He has nowhere else to go. And as long as they still accept him, he still belongs here. With them. It’s easier said than done to trust people but the team makes it _so easy_. Perhaps it’s because they’re just a bunch of misfits trying to fit in together. They need each other to work. It shouldn’t be this easy. “To family,” Eliot replies, raising his mug as a toast.

Suddenly, Parker’s petite hands are grabbing his in a comforting manner. She’s staring at him intently as she whispers as though they’re conspiring together, “You know we’ll take down Moreau, right?” Eliot smiles—it’s genuine this time—and pats her knuckles with one hand in reassurance.

“Yeah, we will. And this time, he won’t know what hit him,” Eliot promises. He’s done with promises to himself. But this will be the last one he makes—and this one, he’ll definitely keep. Damien Moreau needs to stay gone. _Forever_. And his team will be safe. He will be safe. Everything he did and said—they’re to bring Moreau down. Perhaps there’ll be some good that will come out of this chaos. What do they say again? Every cloud has a silver lining.

He needs that to be true.

 

 

\+ + + + +

  


END.


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